Cordelia Lavington 1 to 10

By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com

Copyright 2022 by Governess, all rights reserved

 



CORDELIA LAVINGTON



CHAPTER 1



Cordelia Lavington raised the cane and brought it swishing down across her son's bottom. He gasped and she could see his buttocks clenching beneath their thin cotton covering. He was being punished in his pyjamas before being sent to an early bed. Mrs Lavington often delayed punishment until just before bedtime. For a child to have the sentence hanging over him for the remainder of the day was an excellent discipline. Surprisingly, she invariably used the euphemism 'We'll have a little talk about this at bedtime' rather that the more direct ‘You will be spanked before bed tonight.’ But her children were never in any doubt about what a 'little talk' meant.

Cordelia Lavington worked in the local boys’ orphanage. After her husband had died shortly after the Great War, she had been desperate to find some means of keeping her family together, and owing to her church connections, she had been able to secure the position of matron at St Oswald's. It came with a house in the grounds and was in all respects ideal. While some women might have found the strict routine of the institution disturbing, Cordelia Lavington was not among them. She loved the sight of boys being drilled and the knowledge that any infraction of the rules would lead inevitably to punishment.

On her very first day, passing a room on the way to the infirmary, she had heard the unmistakable sounds of chastisement. She had slowed her pace and listened to the slow swishing of what she knew to be a cane, punctuated by cries of pain. They were from a boy whose voice had not yet broken. Perhaps a boy as young as six or seven. After only a week, a sharp sense of well-being had returned to her. That had been three years ago.

She looked down at her son in his pyjama trousers, wriggling in discomfort. He was six and the caning had been for disobedience. She had told him to put on his coat for the morning walk across to the classroom and he had argued with her. Mrs Lavington did not permit her children to argue. She expected instant obedience. If that was not forthcoming, they were punished. It always surprised her how children resisted learning that lesson. How their wills were not easily or readily subdued. How they tried to wear down a mother's resolve to correct them. Some mothers, she surmised, probably gave up the battle, having no stomach for the relentless struggle. Others were too soft for their discipline to be effective. But Mrs Lavington was not one of those. She relished the confrontation and punished with resolution.

When she was pregnant with her first child, whom she was convinced would be a boy, she had worried he might be so good, so naturally biddable, that punishment would never be needed. She had a vision of motherhood that was far from that sweet, fluffy state, full of warmth and cosseting that filled the minds of most mothers to be. She envisaged several children, all spirited enough to exert their wills against hers. Children who needed to be frequently corrected. The baby stage held no fascination for her. Her toilet training would be harsh for she wanted a child out of nappies with a bottom ready to be spanked. A spanking severe enough to teach right from wrong, and yet not such as to crush the spirit and render the child cowed and fearful. Children, particularly boys, ought to invite regular spanking by their behaviour. And a good mother would eagerly accept that invitation and provide generously what was sought. And her first child was indeed a boy.

She looked again at William, sobbing quietly, his hands now reaching back and clutching his bottom through the thin material. If she had spanked him, it would have been completely bare. For even a thin covering would have rendered the strokes of her hairbrush with its smooth flat back less effective than was desirable. But the cane was different. Pyjama trousers offered little protection from the cuts of a swishy rattan cane. And, in truth, she found the sight of a little bottom wriggling and clenching under the thin material both tantalising and provocative. When she had laid him across the end of the chaise longue she had wondered whether to restrain him but had decided that for a mere half dozen strokes across a pyjama clad bottom that was unnecessary. All her children had been taught from their first spanking to submit without struggling. Not that they always found that possible.

She had never been timid of causing a boy pain. For her pain was an essential component of discipline. Boys learnt through the infliction of pain and as a boy grew and became increasingly sturdy, his suffering needed to be matched to his growing capacity to endure it.

"You may get down, William. And drop your pyjama trousers. Let’s see how well the cane has done its job."

He wriggled off the end of the chaise longue, and released the stretchy cord. He stood, his small frame heaving with silent sobbing. Having suffered the indignity of being hoisted over the chaise longue, and having the flexible rattan cut weals into his tender flesh, he now had to endure the additional shame of exposing himself for examination by his tormentress. His mother pulled out a chair.

"Bend over and place your hands on the seat."

Although he had been spanked from an early age, by the age of five he found the whole procedure not only painful but deeply shaming. He had pleaded in his childish way not to be spanked bare. But to no avail. And now, on those occasions when he was caned and allowed to retain his pyjamas, he was never spared the humiliation of this final exposure.

His mother stretched out a finger and ran it gently across his bottom, savouring the ridges she had raised. He flinched as she scratched across the surface of his buttocks with her nail. She smiled.

"Well, William? Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And what is the lesson you have learned?"

"T . . . to obey when I am told to do something."

"And what did you do instead of obeying?"

He looked perplexed.

"I . . . I . . . "

"I told you to wear a coat and you argued with me. That is not just disobedience, it is rudeness. That is why you were given the cane. So, in future, what are you going to do when asked to do something? Or indeed asked not to do something?"

"I . . . am going to obey."

"And will you argue rudely?"

"No, Mother. I am sorry."

"Good, William. Now, pull up your pyjamas and get ready for bed. And hang the cane back on its hook in the hall, please."

He took it, holding it awkwardly in his right hand, as his left clutched at his bottom.

"I will be up to say prayers with you in ten minutes. So, no dawdling. And when I come up, I expect to see you undressed and ready for bed."

William's caning had been given in front of his older brother, Samuel, who was eleven, and his sister, Elizabeth who was nine. Both were sitting at a large table, one on each end, struggling with homework. All the children were taught in the orphanage, but while William and Samuel shared classes with the boys, Elizabeth was taught by the wife of the principal, along with several other girls whose parents also either taught or worked at the orphanage.

Mrs Lavington, was as strict with her daughter as she was with her sons, possibly stricter. She sought to replicate the same regime with similar standards and similar discipline.

Both Samuel and Elizabeth had kept as quiet as mice during the caning of their brother. Surreptitiously they had watched, but they knew better than to interrupt or to comment afterwards.

Mrs Lavington looked at the clock.

"Well children, the hour and a half for homework is nearly up. Samuel, have you completed the comprehension you were set?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And have you competed that maths assignment, Elizabeth?"

"Not quite, Mother."

"Well, you have two minutes to do so. Samuel, you may bring me your comprehension to read."

Mrs Lavington always checked their homework and insisted on a high standard. She wished to be aware of any failure. Samuel's master seemed loath to apply the rod with the diligence that she thought appropriate.

"Stop writing, Elizabeth. And sit with your hands in your lap while I read through Samuel's comprehension."

Samuel waited, nervous and apprehensive.

"There are twelve questions here, Samuel, based on the passage you have read. I have to say that only five of your answers are adequate. And of those five three are poorly expressed and far from satisfactory. I will write a note to Mr Crawley expressing my concern."

"Please, Mother. No. I've done my best. Truly I have."

"I am not doubting it, Samuel. My point is that your best is not good enough. Unless your errors and failures are pointed out and punished how will you improve. You may have done as well as you could, but better is required. You do understand that, don't you?"

He hung his head.

"Yes, Mother."

"Well, I should hope so. It is not a difficult concept to grasp. I will be discussing your progress with Mr Crawley tomorrow. I am far from happy that he is providing the punishment and incentive that a boy of your age needs."

She pursed her lips and studied him for a moment. He looked down, wilting before her gaze.

"And now up to your room. You are to prepare for bed and then undress. You may then read for half-an-hour before we say prayers."

She shook her head, and her lips tightened, as she watched her elder son disappear upstairs.

"And now Elizabeth. Let me see your maths assignment. Did you find it easy?"

"No Mother."

"A challenging piece of work? But I am sure not beyond your ability if you attended to Mrs Fairclough's lesson. Hand me your book."

Elizabeth knew that she had not done well and sat there uneasily, her hands tucked under her thighs. She watched her mother with pencil in hand go through the work, frowning now and again and marking the page. All her pencil markings would be erased before the work was handed in to Mrs Fairclough tomorrow.

Her mother looked up.

"Well Elizabeth you have certainly not distinguished yourself. Indeed, I am most disappointed. I take it that Mrs Fairclough had explained fully what was required of you?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And that she had given you a lesson on how these problems were to be solved?"

"Yes Mother."

"So how do you explain this lamentable piece of work. Out of twenty problems only six are correct. What have you to say?"

"I am sorry Mother."

"I don't think being sorry is the answer, Elizabeth. Do you?"

"No, Mother."

"Then, what is the answer?"

Elizabeth said nothing, hanging her head.

"Well, let me suggest an answer. First, you need to pay better attention in class. I am sure inattention and daydreaming is more than half of the problem. Secondly, something needs to be done to impress on you the importance of listening not just with your ears but with an active and questioning mind. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother."

Mrs Lavington paused.

"Tomorrow, Mrs Fairclough will deal with your academic shortcoming. But what I am going to do, and do now, is address your moral failure. That is your failure of effort. Your failure to listen with attention. And your failure to bring a disciplined mind to your lessons and to your work. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Then, upstairs please and change into your nightdress. And then bring me the hairbrush from the hall table. While you are undressing, I will say prayers with William."



CHAPTER 2



Elizabeth dragged her feet as she climbed to her room. Her legs felt heavy and unwilling as she mounted the stairs. She had an angry and sullen look on her face. She wondered whether other mothers were as strict as her mother. She had recently read a story about a girl who had stolen some money, and had then been spared the spanking she deserved. It had seemed unreal and had spoilt her enjoyment. Needless to say, her own mother never spared her one smack of the hairbrush or one cut of the cane, let alone a whole whipping. The spanking she was about to receive would send her to bed with a hot smarting bottom, sore against the cold sheets. And her pillow would be wet with her tears as she lay there heaving and crying in her desperate loneliness.

She pushed open her bedroom door and wanted to kick something. To vent her anger against some innocent, inanimate object. But instead, she threw herself on the bed. She lay for a few moments defiant but fearful, but after a few moments scrambled up to change into her nightdress and return to the drawing room. And to collect the hairbrush on the way.

She folded her clothes neatly and placed them over the back of a chair. Often her mother would inspect her room and if it was not judged tidy enough, sit on the same chair and give Elizabeth a spanking. The girl stood naked, glancing at herself in the mirror. She liked what she saw. A small compact girl of nine, with a boyish figure and a snub nose. Her hair was short and cut into a fringe. She bit her lip and pulled the nightdress over her head.

She made her way slowly down the stairs and picked up the hairbrush from the hall table. She was familiar with the brush. All too familiar. Yet she still ran her hand over its hard, flat back, fascinated by the cold smooth surface that would soon impart such heat and soreness to her bottom. She felt her throat tighten as she swallowed, her saliva thick and somehow bitter.

As she entered the room, her mother was standing silhouetted against the window. It was difficult to see her face against the light, but Elizabeth could imagine it. In many ways it was a beautiful face. A straight nose, a smooth brow, and a generous mouth. And just as she was expansive in her love, hugging the children and comforting them when they were hurt or sick, so in her discipline she was equally unrestrained and generous. Never holding back the strokes she believed necessary, and never applying the rod other than with the firm intention of causing pain. Some parents might believe that for a girl to submit to the rod and offer her body for correction was a sufficient discipline and that to cause real pain was unnecessary. But not Cordelia Lavington.

She stretched out her hand.

"Thank you, Elizabeth."

She took the brush and smacked it appreciatively against her palm. The hairbrush had once sat on her dressing table with all the impedimenta of a woman's toiletry, with scent bottles, a small jewel box and a manicure set in a leather case. But it no longer belonged to that world. She remembered the old riddle: I make you smart top and bottom. What am I?  And she smiled.

How different the hairbrush was from a cane! A cane was made from a length of rattan that was cut and crafted with the sole purpose of raising weals on a child's flesh. It had a masculine directness and singularity of purpose. Not so a hairbrush. Mrs Lavington remembered the times she had sat in a sunlit room, brushing her hair, pulling the bristles deliciously through the tresses, so that she felt goose pimples running down her back. And that pleasure could be given to another. She remembered how Elizabeth, as a little girl, had loved to have her hair brushed, and indeed still did. How the hairbrush shone and glossed her hair and straightened the tangles.

Cordelia nodded to herself. There was an ambiguity about motherhood, just like the hairbrush. It could be soft and caressing but also hard and punishing. The hairbrush now used for spanking was kept quite separately on the hall table. It was never used to straighten hair, but applied only to a child's bare, bottom flesh, until that child was squirming and sobbing.

"You took a long time to change into your nightdress, Elizabeth. Why was that?"

"I'm sorry, Mother. I was careful about folding my clothes."

"Well, I am pleased about that, but it is not an adequate explanation. It takes only a few moments to fold clothes neatly. Were you deliberately dawdling?"

"Please, no, Mother."

"Well, I can understand your reluctance to face punishment, but I can assure you I am far from reluctant to administer it. Only punishment is going to drive out your day-dreaming and encourage effort and a commitment to hard work. Stand and face the end of the chaise longue."

Elizabeth moved with an easy grace. She stood there waiting for the inevitable command.

“Do I need to lift you?”

“No, Mother.”

She lay perched over the raised end. Mrs Lavington looked at her daughter's bottom. The cotton of her nightdress was stretched across the soft cheeks, and through the thin material she could see the pinkness of the flesh. She breathed in deeply. She always enjoyed this moment of anticipation.

She remembered how as a child she had been on a walking holiday. It had been a long hot afternoon and she was famished. As they approached the cottage where they were staying, she knew that Mrs Dummelow would have the tea ready. Fresh home baked bread, creamy country butter and homemade strawberry jam. And there it was. But instead of sitting down to eat, she forced herself to go up to her room, hungry as she was, in order to extend the exquisite anticipation of tasting the fresh wholemeal loaf, and the sweetness of the jam.

Elizabeth wriggled over the end of the chaise longue. She also was anticipating the punishment to come. But for her the waiting was not a lingering tantalising pleasure, but a torturing, nervous anxiety. She felt her mother's hand brushing down between her legs, and then her nightdress being pulled free and slowly raised and draped over her shoulders.

During this time her mother said nothing. The silence was heavy and every little sound seemed magnified. The tick of the clock on the mantelshelf, the rustle of her mother's dress as she moved. And then the sound of the flat hard back of the hairbrush smacking across her mother's palm. And she knew that her mother's eyes were on her bare exposed bottom. She could imagine the look on her mother's face, the narrowing of the eyes, the slight frown and the tightening of the lips. She knew that her mother enjoyed spanking her.

And Cordelia Lavington would not be ashamed to acknowledge it. She always regretted the need for a whipping and was genuinely disappointed that a child had departed from the straight and narrow path to wander thoughtlessly in the meadows of sinful self-regard. She regularly prayed that the rod might not be needed. But when it was, she took a deep satisfaction in inscribing her displeasure upon the child's soft bottom flesh. She fervently believed that the good Lord has provided a child's bottom for whipping and that the pleasure a mother took in providing that wholesome discipline was God's way of ensuring that such a vital maternal duty was never shirked.

To whip an innocent child was a wickedness not to be countenanced. But to whip a disobedient child, a child who had sinned knowingly, that was quite a different matter. It would be a wickedness to spare a child the chastisement that would cleanse away sin and open the gate of paradise. Children were loath to go through that gate. It was indeed a gate as narrow as a needle's eye. And a recalcitrant child had to be goaded through it.

And that God had provided a soft enticing bottom for that purpose was clear. Cordelia looked at her daughter's small compact rump and a shiver ran through her. She smacked the brush once more across her palm. Elizabeth twisted in an agony of suspense. And her mother smiled.

"You do realise why you are being spanked, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, Mother."

"And why is that?"

"Be . . because I didn't try hard enough."

"That is true. But there were other reasons. Can you remember them?"

The girl lay limply over the raised arm.

"You said I hadn't listened to Mrs Fairclough. And that I needed to listen better."

Her mother detected a slight surliness in her tone.

"Listen more attentively, Elizabeth. With an active questioning mind. You are nine years of age and well able to apply yourself to your work. Your poor effort is inexcusable. Mrs Fairclough does not set work that she has not fully explained and if you had listened attentively, you would have been able to complete the assignment. You would have been able to achieve full marks. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother."

Again, the surly tone. Cordelia gave a grim smile. If there was one thing that gave her particular satisfaction it was spanking the surliness out of a child.

"Elizabeth, I don’t like your tone. I can see that there is more to deal with than inattention."

"Please, Mother. I'm sorry."

"I am sure you are. But I will not tolerate rudeness. You know how that is dealt with?"

Again, the girl could hear the ominous smack of the brush across her mother's open palm. Several little smacks. Smacks that barely stung at all, unlike those that were about to be applied to her bottom. And then to her thighs, for that was how rudeness was punished.

Cordelia placed her hand firmly in the small of her daughter's back. How warm she was, despite her nakedness. She ran her hand lightly over her bottom and noted the contrast. The bottom was much cooler as though the inner warmth of the body could not radiate through the soft heavy bottom flesh to the surface of the skin. She smiled. Well, warmth would soon be applied from the outside.

Cordelia brought the hairbrush down. As the resilience of the skin absorbed the hard, unyielding surface of the brush, the sound was unmistakable. A sound any would recognise. And if they had been any doubt, the shrill cry of a child suffering for her disobedience would have dispersed it.

Cordelia spanked steadily and unremittingly, with an utter commitment to the girl’s discipline. Each stroke was given with all the force that Cordelia could muster. And as her arm went up so her wrist bent back so that the hand could move sharply in the direction of the stroke, speeding the hard, wooden back of the brush to the soft sensitive nine-year-old bottom. A harsh, smarting pain that brought home to a child the error of her ways.

Elizabeth roared profusely under chastisement. Some children will steel themselves, hold their breath and, apart from the occasional gasp, suffer in silence. At least until the pain becomes so intolerable, so torturing, that tears and screams are inevitable. But Elizabeth was not such a stalwart child. She writhed and screamed from the first stroke, hence the need for the firm hand in the small of her back, steadying and holding her down. Often her mother would secure the children over the end of the chaise longue with a strap. She welcomed their struggles and their vocal resistance. It was in her eyes the appropriate accompaniment to a sound spanking. She wanted to see them squirming like a young lamb with legs kicking. And their cries and tearful sobbing were a confirmation that the spanking was doing its job, breaking the will and inducing a contrite spirit.

She paused and waited for the girl to cease writhing and for her screams to abate.

"And how many strokes is that, Elizabeth?"

"I . . . I'm not sure, Mother."

"Twelve strokes, Elizabeth. Next time please count them."

She paused.

"Or should I perhaps repeat them?"

"No, Mother. Please, No"

"But have you learned the lesson they were teaching?"

"Yes, Mother."

"I am pleased. And what lesson is that?"

"To listen to Mrs Fairclough when she explains things."

"Yes. And listen not only with your ears, Elizabeth but with your full attention. Listen actively to what she says and repeat it to yourself as she goes along. That is the best way to remember. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Good. And now there was something other than inattention that needed to be dealt with. And what was that?"

"You said I had been rude."

"And why did I say that, Elizabeth?"

"I don't know, Mother."

Cordelia shook her head.

"The reason I said you had been rude was because there was no doubt in my mind that you had been rude. And how had you been rude?"

"I don't know, Mother."

There was a surliness in the girl's tone.

"I don’t like your tone, Elizabeth. It sounds as if you think I am asking pointless and foolish questions. Well, young lady, even if I ask questions that are foolish and pointless in your eyes, I still expect them to be answered politely."

She paused, her hand still in the small of her daughter's back.

"And how is rudeness punished in this family, Elizabeth?"

"By a spanking, Mother."

"Yes. And where is the spanking given when a child has been rude?"

"On the backs of the legs, Mother."

"Yes, Elizabeth. On the backs of the thighs."



CHAPTER 3



Mrs Lavington walked over to the drawer where the soft leather strap was kept. She knew that a spanking on the backs of a child’s thighs was exquisitely painful and that Elizabeth needed to be restrained for her own good and to make the spanking easier for her to administer. She ran the strap around the deep curving back of the end of the chaise longue over which Elizabeth had been turned and buckled at the base of her spine.

She brought the hard wooden back of the hairbrush down across her daughter's right thigh. It flattened under the impact and quivered like a smacked jelly. Elizabeth kicked and screamed. A shrill roar of agony, as the tender flesh smarted under the stroke. The bottom of a child loses some of its sensitivity as the years pass, but not the thighs, and there a sharper lesson may be taught. And rudeness demanded such a lesson.

It was not that Mrs Lavington was affronted by the girl’s rudeness. The suggestion that a child’s rudeness might disturb her personal equilibrium would have been judged ridiculous. A nine-year old was not to be taken so seriously. Rudeness was simply a folly that needed to be corrected.

The Book of Proverbs summed it up neatly.

"Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far hence."

And as the Book of Proverbs made clear, the animals were wise and obeyed naturally, but not so children.

The ants are a people not strong, yet they prepare their meat in the summer.

The conies are but a feeble folk, yet make their houses in the rocks.

Nobody told them to do these things. They just followed their God given instincts. But a child's instinct was tainted by sin, and the natural inclination was to assert itself against authority. And a child had to be rigorously trained and unremittingly corrected.

Mrs Lavington smiled. She enjoyed this aspect of motherhood, bending the children to her will. Driving out the foolishness bound in their hearts. Applying the rod of correction.

And there was something particularly satisfying in driving the rudeness and disrespect out of a child. She had often wondered why this was so. Why it gave such pleasure. And it was, she had concluded, because rudeness and disrespect were the breeding ground of sin. And where they were present, the rampant weeds of self-will would grow and before long all that was good in a child's life would be choked to death. And uprooting self-will gave the same pleasure as clearing a garden bed of ground elder or bindweed. When that had been done, the earth could again be productive. Flowers could grow and vegetables be planted. And similarly, when rudeness and disrespect were driven out of a wilful child, and a mother's authority re-established, then that child could again flourish and grow in grace. And how satisfying and pleasing was that to a mother's heart.

Stroke upon remorseless stroke was placed upon Elizabeth's soft thigh flesh. Her screaming was seamless now, as seamless as the robe of Christ. One long roaring scream of pure agony. And how desperately and fruitlessly she kicked.

After two dozen such strokes, Mrs Lavington stopped and waited.

"Are you ready to seek forgiveness, Elizabeth?"

After a while her screams were replaced by heartrending sobbing.

"P . . .please forgive me, Mother. P . . . please. I'm sorry. Please don't spank me anymore."

Mrs Lavington smiled. She loved to have a child capitulate before her will, and she relished the tears and stuttering pleading for forgiveness. But forgiveness was not merely given in exchange for the suffering a child had endured. The suffering brought a child to the gate of paradise, but the key had to be turned, and a step taken across the threshold. There had to be a willingness to pass through. There had to be evidence of true contrition.

"But are you truly contrite, Elizabeth?"

"Ye . . . yes, Mother. I am. Truly."

She released the strap.

"You may get down."

Elizabeth struggled off the end of the chaise longue and stood before her mother. She shivered.

"But how can I be sure of that, Elizabeth? How can I be sure that your seeking forgiveness is not hollow? Just empty words to escape further punishment."

Elizabeth was desperate now. How could she convince her mother that no further spanking was necessary? She was as tense and alert as a small nocturnal animal.

"Please Mother, I'm really sorry."

"And contrite?"

"Yes . . . yes, Mother. I'm contrite."

"And what does contrite mean, Elizabeth?"

The girl hesitated. She opened her mouth and then shut it. She hung her head.

"I . . . I'm not . . . not sure, Mother."

"You are not sure. And yet you tell me you are truly contrite. How can that be, Elizabeth?"

"I . . . I think it means that I am sorry for what I did?"

"Yes, that is part of it. But not all. I have to say I am disappointed. If I have explained what a contrite child is once, I have explained it half a dozen times."

She pursed her lips. And the wooden back of the hairbrush was again being smacked across her palm.

"Well, we had better go through it once more and this time spank it well in."

"No Mother, please no. Please, Mother, no. Please."

Her mother's voice was sharp.

"Elizabeth, in a moment, there will be more to spank in than just the meaning of contrition."

The girl bit her lip.

"You know what hangs in the hall, don't you?"

The reply was subdued and barely audible.

"Yes, Mother."

"And what is it?"

"The cane."

"Yes. The cane. Which I am very ready to use if necessary."

She paused.

"So, let’s go through it once more."

"First, a contrite girl is sorry for what she did. That at least you seem to have grasped.

"Secondly, it means that the girl accepts, and accepts willingly, whatever punishment is necessary so that she may be forgiven.

"Thirdly, it means that she intends to make every effort not to sin in the same way again."

The girl was now crying, soft, wet tears of hopelessness.

"And why are your crying?"

"I . . . I'm sorry, Mother."

"A child who is contrite, Elizabeth, has nothing to cry about. Contrition opens the path to forgiveness. That is why it’s so important you understand."

She stroked her daughter's head, running her hand through the soft brown hair.

"So, we had better make sure that you do."

She sat on the chaise longue and drew her daughter towards her.

"Let us go through it again this time with the hairbrush."

She stretched her left hand across Elizabeth's back and pulled her forward over her lap so she was supported by both her lap and the soft padded seat.

"And remember, Elizabeth, an important part of contrition is accepting whatever punishment is necessary to set you on the right path."

She raised the brush and brought it down with a resounding smack across the girl's right buttock, already marked from the earlier spanking, and proceeded to spank the buttocks alternately, as she spelt out the meaning of contrition.

A . . CONTRITE . . CHILD . . IS SORRY . . FOR WHAT . . SHE DID

The girl gasped and writhed.

A . . CONTRITE . . CHILD . . ACCEPTS . . HER PUNISHMENT

She howled in protest: "No . . . No . . . Please . . . No. . . .”

"I suggest you listen and learn Elizabeth. I am doing this for your own good. Let me repeat,

A . . CONTRITE . . CHILD . . ACCEPTS . . HER PUNISHMENT

“And finally,

A . . CONTRITE . . CHILD . . WILL . . TRY . . NOT . . TO . . SIN . . AGAIN."

The girl was now sobbing unrestrainedly. Her bottom quivered and contracted, clenching and unclenching. Mrs Lavington waited. After a minute, she felt the child go limp, all resistance spanked out of her. She eased her gently into an upright position and hugged her. She spoke in a voice that was now warm and gentle.

"So, tell me what is contrition?"

Slowly the sobbing abated.

"It's . . . it's being sorry for having been disobedient."

"Yes, and . . . ?"

"It's . . . it's accepting my punishment."

"Yes, and . . . ?"

"And . . . and it’s trying not to disobey again."

"Yes, Elizabeth. That is better. That is well remembered. And what were the sins for which you were spanked and for which you are now truly sorry?"

"N . . not listening to Mrs Fairclough. And . . . and being . . . rude."

Her mother smiled.

"So, in future you will listen attentively to Mrs Fairclough and there will be no more surly and rude behaviour when you are upbraided or corrected. Is that right?"

The girl hung her head. She felt limp and lifeless, and yet also peaceful.

"Yes . . . yes, Mother."

"Good. Then, up you get. And now let us say prayers before bed."

Elizabeth knelt on the wooden floor, pulling up her nightdress to take the strain out of the material. Her mother lightly placed her hands on the girl's head.

Almighty and loving Heavenly Father, we thank you for all your goodness towards us. For home and food and the warmth of family life. We thank you, too, that Elizabeth has confessed her sins and has accepted the chastisement due to her. That she is truly contrite and has been forgiven. Help her to understand that the forgiveness she has received is not just a mother's forgiveness but also the forgiveness of her Father in Heaven. And that the suffering she has endured is a sharing in the suffering of His Son who loves us and gave himself for us. Amen.

The girl moved her weight from one knee to the other as she gave her own Amen to the prayer.

"And now upstairs to bed, Elizabeth. And lights out straightaway. No reading, please."

As the girl turned and left the room, the redness of her smarting flesh could be clearly seen through the thin cotton nightdress.



CHAPTER 4



Mrs Lavington sat at the table. In another quarter of an hour she would go and say prayers with Samuel. Afterwards she would retire to her little study and read her Bible. She always tried to fit in an hour's Bible reading as soon as the children had settled down, and before she completed the final tasks of the day. The children's own Bible reading she insisted upon first thing in the morning immediately after breakfast and before school.

As she sat, she thought about Samuel and his lack of application and his casual often surly attitude. Although his voice had not yet broken, he was on the brink of puberty and this, she knew, was a confusing time for boys and a vexing time for their parents. The important thing was to provide support and stability and not to be overly sympathetic. His poor behaviour and effort needed to be met by a firm commitment to his discipline. Even small matters where normally a verbal correction would suffice, ought probably to be responded to with the rod. All in all, he needed to be kept on a much tighter rein during this difficult transition. And on this she had made a start.

She had written to Robert Philp across the border in Lochgelly to request a catalogue. The accompanying letter had explained her need.

And within a week she had received the following reply.

Mrs Lavington had immediately sent away for the recommended tawse. She awaited its arrival eagerly. It was over a week before it was delivered. She opened it in the privacy of her little study and experienced a frisson of pleasure as she held it in her right hand and ran its length appreciatively through her left. She smiled. It was Samuel’s birthday the following week. It would be his only present.

When it arrived, it was wrapped in thick brown paper tied at intervals by short lengths of string sealed with wax. It had looked most mysterious. She decided to leave it in its original wrapping for William to open on his birthday. When he saw it, he had wondered excitedly whether it was a sword, but Elizabeth had pointed out, with a sister's scorn, that it was too bendy, and that anyway a sword would have made a hole in the paper.

His mother watched as he tore at the wrapping. And how the excitement had turned rapidly to disappointment, and then to red-faced shame, as he held the implement of correction in his hands.

He had looked at her in an imploring way, at a loss for words.

"And what is it, Samuel?"

He found it difficult to speak.

"Well?"

"I . . . I'm not sure, Mother."

"Well, what do you think it might be used for?"

His face was burning and there was a desperate look in his eyes.

"Well? No idea at all?"

She turned to her daughter.

"Elizabeth, have you any idea?"

Elizabeth nodded. Mrs Fairclough had one on her desk and regularly used it.

"Yes, Mother."

"Well?"

There was a tremor in the girl's voice as she replied.

"It . . . it's used for punishing children on their hands."

"Good. And do you know what it is called?"

"A tawse, Mother."

She turned to Samuel whose excitement and pleasure had been wrung from him like moisture from a blanket being passed through the mangle.

"Elizabeth is right, Samuel. It is a tawse. And why do you think I have given you a tawse for your birthday?"

He hung his head. His face was burning at the shameful interrogation.

"I . . . I don't know, Mother."

"Well, what are we remembering on your birthday?"

"H . . . how old I am."

She drew the answers from him like fingernails torn from the quick. Tears welled in his eyes.

"Yes, Samuel. We are remembering how old you are. And how old is that?"

"E . . . eleven, Mother."

“Yes. You are eleven. An age when more is expected of a boy. And when that more is not forthcoming, his punishment needs to be more severe. Over the last few months, your behaviour and attitude have been disappointing to say the least."

She took the strap from him and slowly drew the harsh leather tails through her left hand.

"And this, Samuel, is the remedy. It is given as a birthday present because discipline is the greatest gift a mother can give a child. Toys are played with for a while and then forgotten. Thrown into a box or a cupboard. They confer no lasting benefit. But the benefits a boy receives from a strap such as this last a lifetime."

She smiled.

"Do I hear a thank you for your present, Samuel."

And he had whispered a reluctant thank you, before she sent him to hang the new acquisition behind his bedroom door. It had not yet been used, but she had no doubt that it soon would be.

The thought of the birthday tawse brought back to mind the problem of Edward Crawley. She frowned. The man was too soft with boys. There was a place for kindness and encouragement. But a firm commitment to a boy's discipline was the greatest kindness you could bestow. Boys were lazy, selfish and careless. To produce a hard-working, thoughtful and conscientious boy without recourse to the rod was like asking a sculptor to throw away his chisels and work with his bare hands. But that seemed to be Edward Crawley's approach. She shook her head and decided she would speak to him once more before taking the matter up with the Principal. She had every confidence in James Fairclough.

She rose and went to say prayers with Samuel.

The boy was not yet undressed but sitting at a small table drawing.

"I thought I told you to undress and get ready for bed, Samuel. Did I say anything about drawing? I recall giving permission to read for half an hour before prayers, but that is all."

The boy bit his lip.

"Give me the drawing."

He watched as she tore it in two, then in four, and threw the pieces in the wastepaper basket.

"I asked you to undress. Do as you were told. And be quick about it."

He sat on the bed and, reaching down, unlaced his shoes. He took them off and then pulled off his socks, tucking them inside the shoes as he had been taught. He loosened his trousers, slipping off the braces and then eased out his shirt and pulled it over his head. The vest followed. He hesitated.

"Yes. And the trousers, please, Samuel. And the pants. All off, and folded neatly on the chair."

He reached under his pillow for his pyjamas.

"No, Samuel. Leave the pyjamas."

He stood there small and naked, shivering in the cool air.

"And what is hanging on the back of your door, Samuel?"

His throat was dry.

"The tawse, Mother."

"Yes Samuel, the tawse. The tawse I gave you for your birthday."

She paused.

"And when was that, Samuel?"

"Th . . . three days ago, Mother."

She sighed.

"And already it has work to do. Fetch it please."

He went to the door and unhooked it. His face was flushed and his hand visibly shaking. Reluctantly, he handed it to her. It was like a thick flat snake that had been split in two.

"Go downstairs to the drawing room, Samuel. I will deal with you there."

She followed him down, her eyes on his round compact bottom.

And as he descended, Samuel, too, was acutely aware of his bottom. As a boy who had been strictly disciplined from an early age, his buttocks often figured in his consciousness and even in his dreams. Rarely did he undress without a sense of uneasiness. And yet at the same time his bottom held a fascination for him. His hand would often reach round to feel its full sensuous weight. But he never questioned his mother’s right to bare it and whip him until he was writhing in agony and bitterly crying. Spankings had started from his second birthday. And even at that early age his mother had used a hairbrush. At first lightly smacking it across his tiny rump, stinging it and making him howl. But as he grew older the spankings had become progressively harder and were given with a vigour that invariably left him sobbing, red and smarting. And then a few years later, just before he was seven, she had started to cane him.

He pushed open the drawing room door. His mother followed him in, the tawse swinging at her side. She sat on an upright chair.

"Stand here, Samuel."

He stood facing her, and she savoured his nakedness, and shame.

"And put your hands behind your back. And stand up straight."

Although he had not yet reached puberty, he had already discovered the delights of masturbation. He had found that if he slid face down off his bed, there was a pleasurable feeling between his legs that made him feel good. He had quickly worked out that rather than spend time slipping off his bed and clambering back to repeat the process, he could achieve the same agreeable result by holding his little penis with his left hand and stroking the front with his finger. Strangely he always felt guilty about it, and wondered what his mother would say if it was discovered. His instinct told him that she would not approve, and nothing on earth would have induced him to mention his secret to her.

Cordelia Lavington looked at the boy standing before her. He was small and well-proportioned with sturdy legs. She was pleased that neither of her sons was lanky and displeasingly thin and spare. She hated a fat child, but equally disliked skinny, meagre children. Samuel had a compact, generous body. His flesh was firm and whippable.

She looked at his little boy's penis and his tight little scrotum. He was aware of her gaze and bit his lower lip and reddened. He wondered whether she knew his secret. He couldn’t believe that she did.

But his mother as matron of the orphanage was all too aware of the habits of boys and their eagerness to abuse themselves. Over the past four years she had reported many boys to the Principal for such shameful behaviour and she now had his authority to punish them herself. She turned the tawse around and grasping it just below the oval hole from which it hung, reached forward and lifted his limp little penis.

"I hope you are not playing with this, Samuel?"

The boy quickly decided that a blank look and a denial were his best protection.

"N . . . no, Mother."

"You do know what I mean by 'playing with it', don't you Samuel?"

The boy hesitated.

"N . . no, Mother."

Cordelia Lavington smiled.

"Then how were you able to assure me that you didn’t play with it . . ?"

She paused

" . . . if you had no idea what playing with it meant?"

The boy twisted in his desperate confusion.

"But . . . "

"We must have a little talk about it. But after you have been punished for your disobedience."

She drew the tawse through her hand.

"And what did Elizabeth say this was used for, Samuel? Can you remember?"

"F . . . for punishing hands."

"Yes. But not only hands. You would not be standing there without a stitch of clothing on if I intended to strap your hands. No, Samuel, the tawse may also be used on a boy's bottom. And that is how I intend to use it.”



Chapter 5



The tawse was used by a few in the orphanage to maintain order in class. Mrs Lavington knew it to be a particular favourite of Diana Fairclough who used it in the traditional manner. A girl would be made to stand with her hands outstretched with one palm placed over the other. The tawse would then be raised, draped over Mrs Fairclough’s shoulder and, after a tormenting pause, lashed down across the small outstretched hand. After being left to howl in her misery for at least half a minute, the girl would then be told to resume position, with the hands reversed. Even a young girl might expect to receive six such strokes across each of her soft sensitive palms.

But Cordelia Lavington was not going to lay the strap across Samuel's hands. She preferred an altogether softer, more sensitive place. Not that it was not an excellent discipline for a child to offer his hands for punishment. To have to keep them in position, eyes wide open, watching and waiting for the leather to descend with a dull agonising smack across an open palm. And then to suffer the humiliation of roaring and writhing in agony under the gaze of his tormentress.

But excellent though that discipline might be, there was something even more compelling about applying the tawse to a child's bottom. Why strap the bony structure of the hand when such firm, sensitive flesh was available?

She rose from the chair.

"And I can assure you, Samuel, that a tawse like this will raise thick throbbing weals on your bottom that will still be visible in a week's time.”

She paused, and again ran the strap through her hand, savouring its thickness.

“And do you know why it is good for a boy to have such weals beaten on to his bottom?"

Samuel couldn’t think there was any good in it. But punishment had become such a regular part of his upbringing and his training that his distaste for it had been overlaid by an acceptance of its necessity and benefit.

"Well, Samuel? I am waiting."

"Be . . . because it hurts and makes me not want to be disobedient again."

"Yes, Samuel. I am sure it will hurt. I certainly intend that it should. But the weals will last after the hurt has gone. So why is that good?"

Samuel struggled to reply, although he knew the answer.

"Because I can see them and they remind me not to . . . not to disobey again."

"Yes, Samuel. They are a reminder beaten on to your flesh that a boy should obey his mother at all times and in all things. And a reminder of how his mother will deal with him should be choose not to learn that lesson. And that lesson clearly needs to be taught again.”

He watched anxiously as his mother again ran the tawse through her hand.

"Yes, Samuel. You know the rules and how important it is to be obedient. And if a boy of your age steps out of line, he must accept the consequences and be punished. Punished for his own good."

She pointed to the chaise longue. Reluctantly he went to it, and then heaved himself over the end. His mother eased his small compact body a little further forward, elevating it to her satisfaction.

She had taken to heart James Heggie’s warning in his letter and had every intention of restraining him, as she had done Elizabeth. She fetched the soft leather strap from the drawer, and proceeded to pass it under the curved end of the chaise longue and then up and over his body, fastening the buckle tightly in the small of the boy’s back.

“No, Mother. Please . . . I can’t move.”

“That, Samuel, is why you are being secured. The tawse is for flogging a boy’s bottom. If you move about, it may land elsewhere. And that has to be avoided.”

He was frightened and whimpering.

“And are you going to keep your hands forward or do I have to tie them?”

"No, Mother, please. I won't reach back, I promise."

"Are you sure, Samuel?"

"Yes, Mother. Please."

"Very well. But if you reach back, then not only will your hands be tied. You will be receiving additional strokes. Do you understand?"

"Ye . . . yes, Mother."

She paused, studying the round swelling of his buttocks. She had started spanking just before his second birthday. Her potty training had been harsh, for she was anxious to have him out of nappies as soon as possible. The pot was enamel with a handle and a large rim. While some mothers trained by rewarding success, Cordelia Lavington preferred to punish failure. After fifteen minutes sitting on the pot, if nothing had been forthcoming, the boy had been taken off and spanked before being returned for another fifteen minutes.

Once when her back had been turned he had got up and defecated on the floor. For that he was vigorously spanked with the hairbrush and then tied to the pot, and left there as a punishment. It had been easy to run a length of strong hairy string through the pot handle and twice under and round the rim, then tightly around his legs and up and over his small body, finally to be secured once more to the handle. She had left him there for a full hour before releasing him. After that, he was tied each morning and left until he had gone. After three weeks she judged him trained and his nappies came off. There were the inevitable accidents but she knew how to deal with those.

She smiled at the recollection.

Even before he had been born, she had lain in bed and thought about spanking him. Planning how she would do it. Imagining his response. But the reality of holding that squirming little boy across her knee was a fulfilment beyond her most fervent imaginings.

She remembered his very first spanking as if it were yesterday. His surprise at having his little trousers and pants taken down and then his cries of protest as she had hauled him over her lap. He knew he had done wrong even at that early age, but the consequences of wrongdoing had still to be learned and dreaded. His bottom was small and soft and she had given him ten firm smacks with the back of her hairbrush. Nothing like the sound spankings he endured as an older boy, but quite sufficient to redden his tiny buttocks and elicit loud screams, first of rage and then, as the spanking proceeded, of tearful smarting agony.

Right from the beginning, she had never hurried a spanking. She allowed plenty of time for a child to smart and to experience the firm resolute will of her discipline. Later, as Samuel grew older, she appreciated the fuller rounder contours of his bottom and its soft resilient firmness. Then, she began to spank him in real earnest, sparing him nothing. The hairbrush was brought down with all her strength across his firm bottom flesh and he received never less than a dozen hard strokes. Often twice that number. He quickly learned not to fight the spanking, for in the face of resistance his mother had no hesitation in doubling the punishment. But even though he knew the consequences, such was the agony inflicted by the smooth hard back of the brush that his hands would often reach back.

She drew the leather tails through her hand. Samuel's eleven-year-old bottom was already clenching as he anticipated the first stroke.

She raised the tawse, draping it over her shoulder. And then she flicked it into the air and with a quick twist of her wrist brought it sweeping down to impact with a solid smack across the boy's flesh. The shock to the sensitive nerve endings of the buttocks was for a moment numbing, but then as though a blow torch had been applied to his skin.

Like Susannah Wesley's sons he had been taught to fear the rod and cry softly. But the burning pain of the tawse was like nothing he had ever experienced. He roared and strained upward against the confining leather strap around his waist. Cordelia Lavington looked at the red inflamed band that the tawse had raised on the boy's skin. Again, the heavy punishment strap was lifted, rested on her shoulder, and then brought down with all her strength. The boy gave a deep throated, gasping roar. His feet kicked and his head went up. Cordelia Lavington stepped back and admired her handiwork. She appreciated how the heavy flexibility of the tawse had an even more disastrous effect on a boy's bottom than the cane. As it smacked the soft bottom flesh, it hugged the contours of the buttocks, inflaming every inch and raising long throbbing weals. It was, thought, Cordelia Lavington, a most efficacious implement for chastising a boy.

Again, the two thick leather tails were lashed down. Samuel bit his lip hard, struggling to contain the pain.

Another stroke. And this time his mother laid it across the tops of his thighs. The boy roared in his agony, rearing up, clutching backward. His mother waited for a moment, allowing him to regain a little composure. Then she stood in front of the sobbing boy.

“Look at me, Samuel”

Reluctantly, he raised his head. His cheeks were wet and she could see the place where he had chewed his lips and broken the skin. He dropped his head, avoiding her eyes.

"Look at me.”

"I . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry, Mother."

"And why are you sorry?"

"F . . . for putting my hands back."

"But you promised not to do that."

"Please, Mother . . .”

“So why did you resist when you promised not to?"

"I couldn't help it. It hurt so much. Please, Mother."

His hands were twitching and there was a look of desperate concentration on his face.

"But that is not true, is it, Samuel? You could have helped it . . . "

She paused.

" . . . if you had let me tie your hands."

He cast his eyes down, chewing his lip as he did so.

"If you had let me tie your hands, you wouldn’t be in the trouble you are in now. Would you?"

She waited.

"Isn’t that right?”

His reply was barely audible.

Yes, Mother."

"And what did I say would happen if you put your hands back?"

"Y . . . you said I would get extra strokes."

"Yes. Additional strokes."

She went across to the left-hand drawer of the dresser and pulled it open. It slid out easily. Samuel had watched when, several days ago, she had rubbed candle wax on the runners to stop the drawer sticking. She took out a ball of twine.

"Hold out your hands. And wrists together."

“No, Mother, please don’t tie my hands. Please. I promise not to reach back again. Truly, I won’t.”

“But you have already broken your word. What do you think would happen if you broke your word again? What do you think I would have to do?"

He hung his head.

"Punish me even more."

"Yes, Samuel. And do you think you would just get a few more strokes or something worse?"

His reply was whispered and barely audible.

"Something worse."

"Yes, something much worse. So, isn't it kinder to tie your wrists so that you can’t disobey? So you have to accept your punishment and learn from it."

There was a flat, hopeless acquiescence in his tone.

"Yes, Mother."

"Well then, put your wrists together and let me tie them.”

She cut a long length of twine and wound it tightly five or six times around his small slender wrists, knotting the ends securely.

Chapter 6



Mrs Lavington stepped back. There was something exquisitely affecting about a small naked boy firmly restrained and offering his round, firm, little rump for punishment. A boy was usually so full of life, but this vitality could often be mixed with arrogance. Boys needed to be taught humility. And so, she thought, with a wry smile, did girls like Elizabeth.

Disciplining with the rod asserted a mother's right over a child. It emphasised his lowly place in the divinely established order of things. A mother's will was expressed through the nursery law she had made and to which she required obedience. But when a child broke that law not just out of self-interest but, worse, as an act of outright defiance, then he needed not only to suffer physical pain but to be humbled. Cordelia Lavington had no compunction about that. Just as a child was taught the true inner spirit of generosity by being made to share, so too humility was taught through shame and humiliation.

Cordelia Lavington looked again at her eleven-year-old son restrained over the end of the chaise longue. Many would have thought her unduly harsh in her response to his reaching back. But she knew better. Clutching at his buttocks had been forbidden and was a clear act of defiance. The excuse that he could not bear the pain was for her inadmissible. It was not a matter of bearing the pain. That had to be borne. It was a question of doing so in obedience to her will. He had chosen actively to resist her. And where there was resistance, then firm action was needed to drill into the boy a sharp awareness of his subordinate status.

And there was something especially satisfying about humbling a boy and shrinking his false self-esteem. And, God willing, eventually helping him to acquire a true spirit of humility.

The boy wriggled over the end of the chaise longue. The leather strap across rendered him helpless, but not all movement was prevented. His mother smiled as his hips twisted. She raised the tawse and brought it down with all her strength. The boy roared, his trunk heaving up and his legs kicking. Another stroke was applied and then another. Each time the thick, flexible, leather tails curled around the bare flesh, licking the surface of the skin to a raw inflamed red, leaving the boy writhing in agony.

Despite his training, after more than a dozen cuts, he was roaring profusely. But still the flogging continued. Eventually, his mother stepped back. Before placing the tawse on the table, she ran the leather tails lightly through her hand. They were distinctly warm to her touch. But not as warm, she thought, as her son's eleven-year-old bottom. Although 'warm' as a description hardly did justice to the heat radiating from the inflamed flesh.

She left the boy secured and sobbing over the chaise longue and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. She put the tea on a tray together with a glass of water and returned to the drawing room. The boy was still heaving, sobbing in his shame. She put down the tray, and went over and unbuckled the strap that held him. He knew better than to move until given permission, and lay there weeping.

She ran her hand lightly over his bottom and smiled.

"Stop crying, Samuel, and down you get."

He struggled down, grimacing as he did so and reaching round to his bottom.

"Did I give you permission to touch your bottom, Samuel?"

The hand was quickly removed.

"N . . . no, Mother. I'm sorry."

She waited for him to compose himself.

"You do know why you have been punished, Samuel?"

“Ye . . . yes, Mother."

"And why was that?"

"Be . . . be . . . because I disobeyed."

"Yes, Samuel. You disobeyed. I asked you to get ready for bed and you ignored my request. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Mother."

Well? Have you learnt your lesson? May I expect obedience from you in future?"

He was still crying, but was beginning to regain his composure.

"Yes, Mother."

"And why did I have to tie your hands?"

"Because . . . I put my hands back. I'm sorry Mother."

"Yes, you put your hands back. You tried to put them between your bottom and the tawse. But in doing that you were also putting them between my will and yours. You were not only resisting the punishment, you were also resisting me, Samuel. Now go to your room and I will be up to say prayers in ten minutes."

She handed him the tawse.

"Hang this on the back of your bedroom door. And I hope it will not be needed for some time."

She smiled.

"But that depends on you."

She watched him go, holding the tawse awkwardly in his hand.

She sat down and took a sip of water from the glass, before drinking her cup of tea. Some might have felt drained by the physical and emotional demands of disciplining three children, but Cordelia Lavington had deep reserves on which to draw. In that she was like her own mother.

She looked across at the mantelshelf and at a large round pebble that sat there. It might almost have been used as a paperweight. She had brought it home from a holiday when she was seven and had kept it ever since. She had been playing sur la plage and had lost her temper with a younger child and had thrown the pebble at her. The child's mother had picked it up and brought it to her own mother to complain.

"This lady says that you threw this pebble at her daughter, Cordelia. Is that right?"

"Yes, Mother. Please, I'm sorry."

"It is not me you need to apologise to. Apologise to this little girl and to her mother.”

She recalled her stuttered apology, and the lady's stiff acceptance. Her mother had then smiled.

"I am sure you will agree that my daughter's behaviour cannot be allowed to go uncorrected. That more is needed than just an apology. She had turned to Cordelia.

"Cordelia take off all your clothes, please."

She had felt every eye on her as she slowly undressed. The little girl's gaze was particularly unsettling.

"And now, run down to the sea and get yourself thoroughly wet."

She couldn't think what her mother was about, but she knew better than to disobey. She had felt an exquisite shame as she ran down the beach, a small naked girl, to where the waves were breaking. Red-faced she had sat in the sea and let it wash over her. Wet and dripping, she had run back, salt in every pore. Her mother, still holding her clothes, had then made her walk-in front of her to the beach cabin, with the lady following, holding her little daughter’s hand.

Her mother had then disappeared into the cabin, and in a moment came out almost swinging a chair in her right hand, and holding in the other a hairbrush. She had a towel over her arm. She set the chair down and sitting on it placed the towel over her lap.

"Over my knee, Cordelia, please."

Never had she been spanked in such a public place. And how that spanking had hurt. The hard back of the brush smacked again and again across her dripping wet bottom, before the little girl and her mother. And then her mother had made her sit, sobbing in the sand, before turning her once more over her knee and spanking her with the sand adhering to her still wet bottom. Afterwards the woman had simply said, 'thank you' and had walked away holding her little daughter's hand. Afterwards, as she was towelled dry, the remaining grit on her bottom was rubbed agonisingly into the sore inflamed flesh.

Mrs Lavington got up and walked across to the mantelshelf and picked up the pebble and held it in her hand. After the spanking, her mother had given her the pebble and told her to keep it by her bedside as a reminder that girls who throw stones at other girls are soundly spanked. She smiled at the memory, enjoying the cold smoothness of the pebble in her hand. She looked at her watch. Time to go and say prayers with Samuel. As she passed the hall table, she picked up the hairbrush.



Chapter 7



Cordelia Lavington awoke early, as was her practice. She ate a light breakfast and then spent some time reading her Bible and praying about the day ahead. She had a meeting with the Principal at ten o'clock. This was a weekly meeting at which she brought him up to date on issues relating to the health and physical well-being of the boys. Also, at some time during the day, she must fit in a discussion with Edward Crawley about Samuel's lack of effort. And it would also be sensible to speak to Diana Fairclough about Elizabeth.

Suddenly she realised that despite her close attention to Samuel's discipline the night before, she had omitted to have the little discussion she had planned about the evils of masturbation. Well, that would have to wait for later. It would hardly be appropriate to have it in a rushed manner before school. Already she could hear the children up and about.

The children each had their own morning routine and were expected to be at the breakfast table by seven. Before that they were each expected to have read a set passage from the Bible. And they knew that they might well be questioned about it at breakfast. Before commencing to eat, prayers were said by Mrs Lavington, and then one of the children said grace in accordance with a set roster. Mrs Lavington rarely disciplined the children before school and any untoward behaviour was noted to be dealt with later. That morning, not surprisingly, there was impeccable behaviour from all three children. And at a quarter past eight the four of them set out to the main building.

Cordelia Lavington went straight to her office and called in Susannah Simmonds. She had decided to institute a daily check on the dormitories once the boys had departed for the day. At the moment, the boys knew nothing about this, although she knew that before long word would get around. There were four dormitories, each with twenty beds. Two were for boys younger than nine, and the other for boys up to the age of fourteen. This first check had been on one of the dormitories for the older boys. All the boys, whatever their age, had to make their own beds and leave their pyjamas folded neatly under their hard flock filled pillows. Mrs Simmonds had been asked to inspect the boys' pyjamas for any tell-tale signs of masturbation.

"Well, Mrs Simmonds have you found anything? All beds made and pyjamas neatly folded, I hope."

"Yes, Matron. But after examining the pyjamas I am sure three boys have been masturbating. I have noted the names as you asked."

She handed her a list. Cordelia Lavington studied it.

"I think I had better go and see the evidence for myself, Mrs Simmonds."

The two women made their way to Dormitory D. Looking down the double row of beds, Mrs Lavington could see three beds where the pyjamas were on the bed rather than under the pillow. Mrs Lavington smiled.

"I see you have left the evidence out for me, Mrs Simmonds."

"Yes, Matron. I thought that would be easier."

Cordelia Lavington went to the first bed, over which was the name Michael Clough. She picked up the pyjamas. The wrinkled patch of dried semen was all too easy to see. Mrs Lavington nodded. And walked on to the next bed.

She glanced at the name. Oliver Preuss. She had had Preuss in the infirmary several times and on the last occasion had reported him for malingering. A spell in the infirmary was an attractive alternative to the rigours of normal orphanage life, and malingering was dealt with particularly severely. Preuss, she knew, had been birched by the Principal.

This time the patch was still damp. The boy had obviously masturbated just before rising. Cordelia Lavington smelt the stain.

"No doubt about the origins of that, Mrs Simmonds. None at all. And the third?"

The two women crossed to the bed nearest the far door. Mrs Lavington picked up the boy's pyjamas from the end of the bed. Again, the tell-tale patch of staining, still damp, with its strong saline smell.

"Well, no doubt that this was deliberate. In my experience a boy who has an involuntary emission is in no way so generous in the discharge."

She held up the pyjamas.

"Look at the spread of the stain, Mrs Simmonds. That is certainly the result of masturbation."

She looked at the name. Paul Lacy. A boy of Samuel's age. And in Samuel's class. His puberty was obviously a little more advanced than Samuel's but nevertheless it made her realise how important it was to have that discussion with her elder son that she had omitted to have the previous evening.

"You have done well Mrs Simmonds. I want you to repeat what you have done each morning until further notice. Tomorrow you will check Dormitory C. With a younger boy, who is not yet having emissions, it is difficult to detect masturbation, unless he is caught in the act. However, some boys even as young as ten can ejaculate, so please do check all pyjamas and sheets."

"And what will be happening to the three boys in this Dormitory, Matron?"

"That is easily answered, Mrs Simmonds A very painful lesson in the need for continence."

At ten o'clock sharp Cordelia Lavington knocked on the Principal's door.

"Come in."

James Fairclough was seated behind a large desk on which were the usual impedimenta, including a blotting pad and ink well. To the left of the desk was a green shaded reading lamp.

"Good morning, Matron."

"Good morning, Sir."

He came out from behind the desk and indicated that Cordelia Lavington was to sit in one of the two dark green leather armchairs. She did so and he sat beside her.

James Fairclough had held the post of Principal for just over a year, and in that time some significant changes had been introduced. Some practices that had lapsed had been re-introduced. The most significant being the reintroduction of the birch which, under the previous Principal, had been phased out. Boys had still been subject to the cane, but increasingly the trend had been away from corporal punishment toward what had been regarded as more enlightened methods of dealing with recalcitrant boys.

But for the new Principal this was to misunderstand the nature of boys and their needs. All boys were sinners. The kindness response to sinning was to make it extremely unattractive. And that meant ensuring a consequence that outweighed the pleasure. And as boys enjoyed lying and stealing and rebelling against authority, only severe and certain punishment was likely to deter them.

Cordelia Lavington glanced through the door into the next room which was open to her view. It had an uncarpeted wooden floor, and in the corner, she could see a pail in which three birches were steeping. These were renewed every other day by Mr Hodges the caretaker and general maintenance man.

"And what have you to tell me Matron? How many have we in the infirmary?"

"There are four boys, Sir. Prewitt and Rowbottom still have high temperatures and sore throats. Simpson has sprained his ankle and needs to rest it for a day or two. And Machin is due to go out today. As you will recall he concussed himself falling out of a tree that he should never have been climbing."

"Then as soon as he is discharged send him to me. He may have had a nasty fright falling and concussing himself, but that is only a natural and inevitable consequence of his disobedience. He needs to learn that the authority that imposes rules also punishes their infraction. I suggest you bring him yourself, Matron."

He frowned.

"And I take it that the other boys do need to be in the infirmary. As you know I do not favour cosseting these boys. Life is hard and the sooner they understand that the better."

"You can trust me not to cosset any boy, Mr Fairclough. If a boy is in the infirmary, it is because he needs to be there. And he will be sent out at the earliest moment I judge appropriate."

"My apologies, Matron, if I was seeming to question your professional judgement. I have the highest regard for you and I know we see eye to eye on these matters. I was merely reiterating my position which is already known to you. I apologise. It was quite unnecessary."

"Thank you, Sir. No offence was taken."

He smiled. Cordelia Lavington was an excellent matron and part of her excellence was her commitment to the boys' welfare in its broadest sense. Including the need for firmness and discipline.

"And is there anything else of which I should be aware?"

"Yes, Sir. I have started to take a resolute stand against masturbation in the dormitories. This morning Mrs Simmonds and I carried out the first inspection in Dormitory D, examining sheets and pyjamas. Three pair of pyjamas showed clear evidence of a seminal emission. From the prolixity of the staining, I am satisfied none could have been the result merely of disturbing dreams. I am proposing to deal with these boys myself later in the day."

She paused.

"If that meets with your approval."

"Of course, Matron. The dormitories and their discipline are your responsibility. I am pleased you are taking the initiative. Masturbation is a vicious habit and regrettably is too often condoned these days. I suggest you make it your practice to include it in your weekly reports to me. And let me have a list of all those boys guilty of masturbating."

He paused.

"Of course, boys masturbate from an early age. The sooner they are persuaded that this is unacceptable the better. But catching the younger boys who do not yet leave the tell-tale signs on pyjamas and elsewhere is not so easy. I would like you to think about that."

Cordelia Lavington nodded.

"Yes, Sir. I will give it some thought. I have the problem with my son, Samuel. I am sure he is abusing himself but as yet there is no natural evidence to convict him."

"And apart from that, how is the boy faring?"

"Well, he is not unintelligent but he is lacking in effort and commitment."

She paused not wanting to criticise a colleague.

"I intend to speak to Mr Crawley about it . . . but am less than hopeful that he will take the action necessary."

Mr Fairclough smiled.

"You consider him too, what shall we way, sympathetic?"

Cordelia Lavington lips compressed before she replied.

"Yes, Sir. I am afraid I do. He thinks the best of boys when there is little good to be thought. Boys are all too happy to snigger and joke among themselves and shy away from work. But a boy who has set his face against effort and application needs more than encouragement to mend his ways. For such boys encouragement will simply fall on stony ground. What they need is punishment. Painful punishment that far exceeds the pleasure enjoyed by their laziness and self-indulgence. Sufficient to make them unwilling to risk such an unequal exchange in future."

"I agree, Matron. And I do understand your reservations, about Mr Crawley. If he is unwilling to take the steps that you as Samuel's mother consider necessary come and see me again."

He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

"Is there anything else?"

"No, Sir. I think we have covered everything for the moment."

"Well, thank you, Matron. And I want you to know how much I appreciate your commitment and hard work.

"Thank you, Sir."

Cordelia Lavington made her way back to the infirmary. Her step was quick and light. She always felt better after a meeting with the Principal.



Chapter 8



Cordelia Lavington sat in her office and checked the dormitory roster for the week ahead. She had three assistants who took turns in sleeping overnight in case of an emergency. Mrs Simmonds who had checked the boys' pyjamas was one of these. She was a widow, but unlike Mrs Lavington had no children. The other two women were also single. She walked into the infirmary and called Anne into her office.

"Anne, please would you run across to Mr Crawley’s class and tell him that Matron needs to see Paul Lacy in the infirmary immediately."

She sat back and waited. She had no intention of confronting Lacy with his stained pyjamas. The longer the boys were kept in the dark about her new routine of inspection the better. After several minutes a small pale looking boy was knocking at her office door.

"Come in. Stand over there Lacy. And hands behind your back please."

She continued working at her desk. She knew the benefit of making a boy wait, anxious about her intentions. Any boy in the orphanage who was summoned by a member of staff had cause to worry. Such a boy expected trouble and was usually not disappointed. But Lacy could think of no reason why the Matron would wish to see him. Unless . . . but he dismissed the idea. Nevertheless, he felt increasingly nervous as he waited, watching her writing at her desk. Five minutes must have passed before she looked up.

"Have you any idea why you are here, Lacy?"

"No, Matron."

She smiled.

"Take off your shoes and socks and place them under the chair. And then stand as before with your hands behind your back."

She resumed her work and made the boy wait another five minutes, before looking up.

"And now remove all your clothes and place them on the chair. You may hang your jacket over the back."

She watched as he divested himself of his clothes, until he stood before her naked and shivering.

"And you have no idea, no idea at all, why you are here?"

"No, Matron."

There was a nervous edge to his voice now.

Cordelia Lavington walked across to a cupboard and opening it, took out a cane. She stepped across to the boy and stood in front of him. He watched mesmerised as the tip of the cane reached out and tapped the side of his small limp penis.

"So, no idea at all, Lacy? Is that right?"

"Yes, Matron."

He was anxious now and his face betrayed it.

"Tell me Lacy, do boys in your dormitory talk after lights out?"

"Sometimes, Matron."

"And yet that is forbidden?"

"Ye . . . yes, Matron."

"And do you engage in forbidden talk, Lacy?"

"No, Miss."

"So, what do you get up to in the warmth of your bed?"

"Well . . . I . . . I sleep."

"Yes, I am sure you do, Lacy. And what do you do when you wake in the morning?"

"I . . . get out of bed and dress myself."

"Indeed. And before that?"

"I . . . I think about getting up."

"Do you Lacy? And is that all you think about?"

By now the boy was certain that she knew. Knew that he masturbated most mornings. Somehow, he was sure it was wrong but he couldn't help himself. Some of the boys did it together but he had never done that. He bit his lip. Foolishly he decided to brazen it out.

"I . . . I don't think about anything else. Truly, Matron."

She raised the cane and tapped his little penis.

"You never give any thought to this?"

He reddened. Suddenly aware of his nakedness and vulnerability.

"N . . . no, Matron."

Cordelia Lavington frowned.

"I think you're lying, Lacy. I think you not only think about it, but play with it. Am I right?"

There was a look of helpless desperation on the boy's face.

"No, Matron. Please, no."

She raised the cane and brought it swishing down against the side of his left thigh. He shrieked and his hand pressed against the hurt.

"Let me repeat my question, Lacy. And hands behind your back please."

The tip of the cane was resting under his penis.

"Do you play with this before you rise in the morning? And be warned, it would be very foolish to continue lying to me. You know what happens to liars, Lacy. Well?"

The boy was crying now.

"Sometimes . . . I . . . sometimes . . . I touch it. please, Matron."

"Touch it. Is that all you do? Just touch it."

"Yes, Matron."

"Show me, Lacy. Show me how you touch it."

He withdrew his hand from behind his back and touched his penis lightly and then took it away again.

"And that is all you do?"

"Yes, Matron."

"Hands behind your back."

He watched as the cane was raised.

"No, Matron. Please. No."

He shrieked as the rattan cut into his thigh.

"I said put your hands behind your back. Did I give you permission to move them?"

She waited, relishing his distress.

"Let me put my question again, Lacy. Is that all you do? Just touch yourself as you showed me. Or do you do something else?"

"She began to raise the cane.

"No Matron. Please."

"Well?"

"I . . . I sort of rub it."

"You sort of rub it. And then what happens?"

"I . . . I go on rubbing it."

"And what happens when you go on rubbing it?"

He hung his head, his face red with shame.

"Let me help you, Lacy. Your little penis goes quite stiff. You rub it and it feels very nice. You rub it faster and faster until suddenly a thick blob of sticky stuff spurts out all over your pyjamas. Am I right?"

His reply was barely audible, as he gave a whispered confession of his terrible guilt.

"Yes, Matron."

"And do you think that is the right way for a boy to behave?"

He was now cowed and despairing.

"No, Matron."

"Well, Lacy, I am pleased you recognise that."

She paused.

"And what happens to boys who deliberately choose to act wrongly. In your case, Lacy, a boy who shamelessly abuses himself?"

There was a long wait. No boy wishes to pronounce sentence upon himself.

"Well?"

"He's punished."

"Yes, Lacy. He's punished. And what do you think would be an appropriate punishment in this case?"

"Th . . . the cane . . . Matron?"

"You think the cane."

She smiled.

"Well, we shall see. But first there is something else that needs to be dealt with, isn't there, Lacy? And what is that?"

He hung his head. The memory of his hopeless dissembling was painful.

"I . . . I lied to you Matron."

"Yes, Lacy. You lied. All lying is serious, but some lies are worse than others. A lie to escape punishment is particularly serious. And you know what that means."

She paused, studying the boy’s pale anxious face.

"So, let us deal with the lying first, shall we?"

The Matron's office was in fact a very large room. There was a desk, a couch on which a sick boy could lie and be examined, and weighing scales with sliding weights on a bar. On the far side of the room was an open shower with a large tiled floor. Close by was a long oval shaped stool over which a towel had been draped. But towards the far end of the room was a pillar about four inches square that extended from ceiling to floor. It played some, not altogether obvious, part in the construction of the building. On first seeing it, Cordelia Lavington had immediately thought of a whipping post, and in fact that was how she sometimes used it, particularly when she wished to impress upon a new offender how seriously she regarded his wrongdoing. She would stand him on a low stool, run a strap around his waist and secure it tightly at the back of the pillar. The boy was then ready to be whipped with no way of his avoiding the strokes that she chose to apply to his small, naked bottom.

She had been a companion to her aunt as a young girl, and had travelled with her to Italy. And in several galleries, she had seen pictures of the flagellation of Christ. He, too, had been tied to a pillar, sometimes facing it and sometimes, cruelly, with his back to it, exposing his chest and stomach to the flagrum. His genitals were covered by a loincloth, but in reality, he would have been naked, as naked and unprotected as Lacy was now.

She marched the boy down to the pillar.

"Up on to the stool and raise your arms, please."

“The boy shivered as his body met the cold surface. He stepped back a little so that his scrotum and penis were not pressed hard against it.

Mrs Lavington picked up the strap that she had placed in readiness and ran it around his waist and the column, and fastened it tightly at the back. He shifted shifted uneasily, his buttocks contracting in fearful anticipation of the flogging to come.

Mrs Lavington picked up the cane, flexed it and then swished it through the air. There was a sharp intake of breath from the boy and he shivered.

"Please, don't cane me, Matron."

Cordelia Lavington smiled.

"I cannot think why you consider you should be spared the cane after such shameful lying. Lying to escape punishment is, as I said, especially reprehensible. Your pleading to be let off shows how little you appreciate the seriousness of the offence. And in that case, Lacy, even greater severity is required."

She tapped the cane across his buttocks. She could almost smell his fear. She breathed in deeply.

On those travels around Europe with her aunt, she had witnessed a young criminal being flogged. The pair of them had taken a donkey up into the hills with a local guide. They had arrived in the village square to find a crowd assembled to watch the punishment. The boy must have been about sixteen and was fastened to a whipping post much as Lacy was now fastened to the pillar. He was not completely naked, but was wearing thin cotton trousers. As far as she could see the whip was made of perhaps nine or ten thick leather thongs each of which seemed to be knotted at the end. The boy received two dozen strokes across his bare back. These were laid on slowly and skillfully with enormous force. After only four or five strokes blood had been drawn and when it was all over the boy's skin was badly broken and torn. The blood flowed freely, running down his back, staining his trousers and splattering on the ground. She had watched with an eager fascination, a throbbing sensation in her chest that was far from unpleasant. As the boy was released, she had looked to see if there was another delinquent to be flogged. And she remembered her acute disappointment when none appeared. She never discovered what the boy had done.

She flexed the cane and smiled. Last week she had seen a local boy in the meadow, completely naked, splashing in the stream. She had watched him for several minutes delighting in his lithe bareness and the firmness of his buttocks. But how much more delightful, she thought, was the sight of a boy stripped and secured for flogging.



Chapter 9



The cane was of rattan, the diameter of a pencil, and just short of three feet in length. It was wonderfully limber and seemed to have a life and purpose of its own. A purpose shared by the one in whose hand it was held, to raise throbbing weals on a child's soft yielding flesh.

The boy tightened his buttocks, or rather there was an involuntary tautening and twitching as he awaited the first stroke.

"No clenching, Lacy. A boy who tightens against the rod is showing resistance."

She waited. She was in no hurry. Cordelia Lavington was blessed with enormous patience. If one of her children failed to understand a problem or task, she would give unstintingly of her time to lead him to understanding. And it made no difference if the problem or failure was in the moral realm. Except that the satisfaction was the greater. For while an inability to spell might be a handicap, a moral failure like lying, drew the child into the realm of Satan. And as the Book of Proverbs instructed her

Withhold not correction from the child: for it thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die.Thou shalt beat him with the rod and shalt deliver his soul from hell.

Mrs Lavington's arm went back, and with a dull whoosh the cane impacted on the boy's buttocks. It seemed for a moment as though he were trying to clamber up the pillar as he pressed forward jerking upward. The cane was again swept back and another cut was laid across his bottom. And then another. She continued until a dozen strokes had been well laid on. Then, she stepped back to survey her handiwork.

Each of the strokes was parallel to the others. Already they were darkening and the tramline marks were already apparent, marks that announced to any who saw them that here was a boy who had been severely caned. Although Mrs Lavington enjoyed having a child wriggling over her knee or turned over the end of the chaise longue, there was something especially appealing about flogging a boy at the pillar. That she did it infrequently added to the piquancy. The cane, instead of descending almost vertically, was swished in a horizontal plane to cut into the buttocks of the standing boy. She could therefore, if greater severity was required, twist her body with each stroke, putting her whole weight behind it.

"Well, Lacy? Do you know better than to lie again?"

The boy struggled to reply through his heaving sobs.

"P . . . pl . . . please, Matron. Please, I won't lie again."

"But Lacy any boy in your position would say the same. How can I believe you?"

"Please, Matron. Please. I promise."

"In my experience, Lacy, boys will promise anything to escape punishment. Words come easily to them. But doing what is promised is more difficult and the promise often forgotten."

She paused.

"You see Lacy my concern is to drill into you the importance of truth-telling. First, if you get a reputation for lying, no one will believe a word you say. But secondly, to prevent that, every time I catch you in a lie you will be flogged. And next time the flogging will be twice as long and twice as severe."

She waited.

"So, it is probably better that I give you another dozen strokes now to drive the lesson home."

She stepped forward and placed her hand on his shoulder. It was warm to her touch."

"So, isn’t that the sensible thing to do?"

All resistance had drained away. He nodded in a hopeless sort of way and whispered his agreement.

She swept the cane back and as she did so her body swivelled to the right and then as she bent her wrist and drove the cane forward, she twisted with the stroke and the whole strength of her body impelled the cane even more forcibly towards its target.

The boy heaved and struggled against the restraint around his waist, writhing and drumming his feet on the stool. Another stroke was given. And then another. Mrs Lavington was a skillful disciplinarian. She flogged thoughtfully and with intention, cutting the cane across the weals raised by the earlier strokes and breaking the skin so that thin trickles of blood ran down the boy's buttocks and on to his upper thighs. After six unhurried strokes, she stepped back. Then after a short pause administered the final six.

The boy was limp and panting heavily. She left him for a moment and went into the infirmary returning with some salve and lint and some other items on a small tray which she placed on a table. Then untied the strap holding him around the pillar and released him.

"Go and lie face down on the bed, Lacy."

He did so, his whole body heaving, and racked with sobs. He was damp and disheveled, the epitome of a small boy who had been soundly punished.

"Your buttocks will be sore for several days, Lacy, but that should serve as a reminder to you to tell the truth at all times."

She applied some salve to his wealed bottom and then a thin lint dressing. Then, she fetched a large glass of water.

"Drink this"

He did so for his throat was sore from his roaring and he was hot and distressed. She refilled the glass and passed it to him. And again, he drank it gratefully. She picked up the cane.

"And now there is your self-abuse to deal with. Get up and put your vest and shirt on."

The boy scrambled up, anxious not to offend further.

"Stand here."

He stood half-naked his genitals exposed beneath the front of his shirt tails. She placed the tip of the cane underneath his small limp penis.

"You need a lesson in self-control, Lacy. Do you know what self-control is?"

"I . . . I'm not sure, Matron."

"Self-control is making the effort not to do something that is wrong, even though you want to do it very much. Some things are very hard to resist. And a boy is easily tempted. So, he needs to be trained in self-control. It is an important virtue, Lacy. Otherwise, you will simply be ruled by your desires."

She paused and looked at the boy's flushed, tear-stained face. And again, lifted his penis with the tip of the cane.

"In future the only thing this is to be used for is passing water. Do you understand, Lacy? Only for passing water."

She smiled.

"But as a lesson in self-control you will not be permitted to pass water for the rest of the day."

She waited giving him time to appreciate what she had said.

"And out of the kindness of my heart, Lacy, I will not punish you further. But if there is any failure of self-control then I will deal with you most severely. Now finish dressing."

She watched as he dressed.

"And now put your hands behind your back."

She went to her desk and wrote with great care on a card. When she had finished, she read to him what she had written, slowly and with emphasis. She then hung it around his neck.

"But Matron, suppose . . . suppose, I want to do . . . do the other thing?"

"Then, you will have to exercise self-control. And if you wet or mess your pants, you know what to expect."

She smiled.

"You may return to your class. But first you will have two spoonfuls of castor oil."

She picked up the bottle and a spoon.

"Open wide."

He grimaced as the unpleasant liquid went into his mouth. But he swallowed it without making a fuss.

"Now on your way. And I hope not to see you again today."

And yet she relished the thought of his being sent to her. In abject humiliation. His trousers and pants sodden with urine, or even fouled by his faeces. She smiled. four o'clock was a long way off.

But there were the other two boys to deal with, Clough and Preuss. Should she deal with them together or separately? She frowned. Better separately and later in the day, or even tomorrow. Word would get around about Lacy's punishment and she wanted both boys to live with their anxiety for a while. And then when they had begun to hope all was well, she would cast her net and haul them in.

She stepped into the infirmary.

"Anne, Machin is due to be discharged today. Would you get him dressed and send him to my office, please?”

After some minutes Machin knocked at her door.

"Come in."

"You wanted to see me, Matron."

"Yes, Machin. Or more accurately, the Principal wants to see you."

She looked at the boy. He was nine years old, with fair hair that had been cut short. He had blue eyes and a worried look on his face.

"The . . . the Principal, Matron?"

"Yes, Machin. That is what I said. The Principal. Are your ears in need of syringing?”

"N . . . no, Matron."

"Good. Then pull up your socks and straighten your tie."

She placed a hand on his shoulder and propelled him towards the door. The clack of her shoes echoed down the stone corridor. She strode along and the boy had almost to trot to keep up with her. They passed through a double door and from there on the corridor was carpeted. And there were pictures on the walls. They stopped outside an oak door to which was affixed the name plate of the Principal. Mrs Lavington knocked.

"Come in."

James Fairclough was seated at his desk, but rose as they entered.

"Thank you, Matron. Please be seated."

He pointed to a large leather armchair.

"And you, Machin, come and stand here."

Machin went and stood in front of the desk. Already he was fearing the worst. He knew of no reason why a boy should be sent to the Principal other than for punishment.

"So, you have been in the infirmary, Machin. And for how many days was that, Matron?"

"Five days, Sir."

"Five days. And were you well looked after there, Machin?"

"Y . . . yes, Sir."

"Good food and a nice warm comfortable bed?"

"Yes, Sir. "

"And why were you being so well looked after in the infirmary with its good food and comfortable bed?"

"I . . . I fell out of a tree . . . Sir."

"I see. You fell out of a tree. But I thought all boys were expressly forbidden to climb trees. Isn't that right?"

"I . . . I think so, Sir."

"It is forbidden, isn't it, Matron?"

"Yes, Sir. It is. Expressly forbidden."

"So, what were you doing in the tree, Machin?"

"I . . . I was climbing it, Sir."

"Yes, I am sure you were, Machin. And none too successfully. But what else were you doing in the tree?"

The boy was lost for a reply. And looked down, shuffling his feet.

"Let me tell you what you were doing in the tree, Machin. You were disobeying. You were breaking a rule. A rule that Matron had asked should be made. And for good reason. She does not want her infirmary full of silly little boys who injure themselves falling out of trees."

He had his fingers together and was looking hard at the boy.

"So, you were comfortable in the infirmary, were you, Machin? Well looked after?"

"Yes, Sir,"

"But you had no right to be there. If you had obeyed the rule, you would not have been there. Am I right?"

"I suppose so, Sir."

"Well, Machin, you suppose correctly. You had no right at all to be in that warm, comfortable infirmary. And yet Matron and her staff looked after you despite that."

The boy looked down. He was not sure where this was heading, but he knew full well that he was in trouble.

"So, having made you warm and comfortable, I now suggest that Matron should make you warm and uncomfortable. What do you say, Matron?"

"I should be very happy to do so, Sir."

The Principal pulled open a drawer and took out a hairbrush. He handed it across the desk.

"Well, Matron, the boy is all yours. To deal with as you think appropriate."

Cordelia Lavington stood up. She crooked the first finger of her right hand and beckoned to the boy.

"Come here."

With obvious trepidation he stepped towards her.

"Put your hands by your side and keep them there until I tell you otherwise."

She slipped his braces from his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt.

"Take it off. And your vest. And now remove your shoes and socks."

She reached down and undid the buttons of his trousers.

"Slip them down. And step out of them. And remove your underpants, too."

James Fairclough was watching intently as the child’s clothes were progressively removed. He was now a small, pale boy, visibly shivering and with all dignity stripped away. Although the Principal enjoyed disciplining boys, there was nothing quite as enjoyable, he thought, as watching Cordelia Lavington do so. Some women thrashed boys out of spite. They were often bitter and spinsterish. But not Mrs Lavington. She had a quiet calm authority and whipped a boy as a mother might. With a commitment to the boy's discipline that spared him nothing, placing him at the centre of her attention.

She picked up the hairbrush and smacked it across her palm.

"Well, Machin, the Principal wants me to provide some uncomfortable warmth. And where do you think that might best be applied?"

The boy shuffled uneasily. Two red spots had appeared on his otherwise white face.

"I . . . I'm not sure, Matron."

"You surprise me, Machin. Turn around."

The boys did so.

"Well, I can see an obvious place. Nice and firm, rounded, and with two very soft and sensitive little cheeks."

She waited.

"And to what am I referring, Machin?"

The reply was barely audible.

"My bottom, Matron."

"A little louder, please, Machin."

"My bottom, Matron."

"Yes, your bottom. The place provided by a merciful God for teaching small boys obedience."

James Fairclough was aware that his breathing was quick and shallow. And there was a stirring between his legs.

The Matron sat on an upright chair, and patted her lap.

"Over here, Machin."

He stood against her right thigh and then bent forward. She wrapped her arm around the naked boy and heaved him up. She ran her right hand over his bottom.

"My goodness, Machin, this is a cold little bottom."

She smacked it.

"Like a blancmange that’s been in a cool pantry."

She smacked it again.

"But it won't be cold for much longer. There is nothing like the hard wooden back of a hairbrush for warming up a boy's bottom.

She reached out and ruffled his hair.

"But unfortunately, it is not an entirely painless process."

She brought the hairbrush down with a dull smack across the bareness of his right buttock. He gave an audible gasp and clenched his bottom as though trying to squeeze away the pain. Another hard stroke smacked across his left buttock. There was another gasp. He was twisting now, and his legs were kicking. Soon he would be roaring. The Matron had her left arm tightly around his waist. She was happy for him to struggle, to feel his desperate writhing in response to the torment she was inflicting. There was no escape. And the spanking would continue for as long as she wished.

James Fairclough watched as the boy' buttocks became first pink, then red and finally a deep angry crimson. The boy was screaming now. Great sobbing bursts of anguish.

Cordelia Lavington paused, allowing him time to compose himself. Slowly his writhing ceased. Now he was resting across her knee, scarcely breathing, hoping that his punishment had ended.

Machin had been spanked by Matron before. But for a small boy every spanking is as fresh and shocking as the first.

Cordelia Lavington held her hand just over the surface of his bottom and could feel the heat radiating from it.

"Well, Machin, I think you have a bottom that is a little warmer that when I started."

She ran her hand down the backs of his thighs.

"But these are still quite cold."

The hairbrush was back in her hand and she gently smacked the boy's slack thigh flesh.

"Please, Matron, no. Please, don't. No. Please."

"What do you think, Mr Fairclough? Would it not be a kindness to warm the boy's thighs?"

"Well, Matron, as you have warmed his bottom, I see no reason why you should not warm up his thighs as well."

Chapter 10



Mrs Lavington smartly smacked the brush across the boy's bottom.

"Off my lap, Machin."

He wriggled off. She watched as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands behind him, holding his smarting flesh.

She held out her hand. Still sobbing, he instinctively, trustingly, grasped it and she led him across the room to one of the two green leather armchairs.

"Sit in it, Machin."

He did so nervously. She placed her arm under his legs and swung him round so that he had his back on the seat of the chair. Then, reaching under the backs of his legs she forced them back over his head until his feet were touching the arm of the chair. The slack thigh flesh tautened as she pressed down. Slowly, with even, unhurried strokes, she spanked her way up his left thigh from just above the hollow of the boy's knee to the fold of his buttock. His deep throated roars of agony reverberated through the room. The Principal's eyes narrowed as he gripped a pencil tightly in his right hand.

The contrast between the red inflamed surface of the one thigh and the whiteness of the other made it look as though he were to appear in some medieval street pageant. She placed the brush low down, against the flesh of the still pale thigh.

"No . . . Please . . . No . . . Don't . . . Please."

She lifted the brush.

"The boy seems to think he should be spared a spanking on his other thigh, Principal."

"Nonsense, Matron. Please continue."

After his right thigh had received a dozen solid strokes, leaving it as red and sore as the left, the boy was released and made to stand before the Principal's desk.

"Turn around, boy."

The Principal looked with satisfaction at the sight before him. The boy's buttocks were red and inflamed, and on the backs of his thighs the oval marks of the hairbrush were clearly visible. Mr Fairclough breathed in deeply, relishing Matron's handiwork.

"Turn around and look at me, boy. And stop grizzling. I want an assurance that you will not be climbing trees in the orphanage grounds again. That Matron's discipline has not been wasted."

The boy, his face wet and his hair disheveled, rubbed his eyes and struggled to compose himself.

"Well, boy? I'm waiting."

"Y . . . yes, Sir."

"And what does 'Yes, Sir' mean?"

"Please, Sir, I'm sorry. Please, Sir."

"You are sorry you climbed that tree. Is that what you are saying?"

He was still crying.

"Y . . . yes, Sir."

"Well, you have every reason to be sorry. And will you be climbing trees again?"

"N . . . no, Sir."

"Well, I am pleased to hear it. It just shows the benefit of a sound spanking.”

He paused, his lips compressed.

“I want you to look into the next room, Machin. No need to enter. Just look through the doorway. Do you see a pail?”

“Y . . . yes, Sir."

"And what is in the pail?"

The boy hung his head.

"Not sure, boy? Well, in that pail are three birch rods. And the next time you are referred to me for punishment, one of them will be swished across your bottom. And after I have finished with you, you will certainly need a visit to Matron's infirmary."

He nodded

"You may dress."

The boys did so slowly, shamefully aware of the eyes upon him.

Cordelia Lavington beckoned to him.

"Come here, Machin."

He stood before her nervous and inwardly trembling. She ruffled his hair. It was damp to her touch.

"I want you to know, Machin, that I have dealt with you no differently from how I would have dealt with one of my own children. Indeed, yesterday I had occasion to whip each of my three children. You may count yourself fortunate that I am prepared to discipline you in the same way."

She paused.

"And now, before rejoining your class, you will go to the infirmary and thank Mrs Simmonds for looking after you so well for the last few days. Off you go. Unless the Principal has anything more to say to you."

"No, Matron. I have said all I need to say. You are dismissed, Machin. Go and do what Matron has told you to do."

Mr Fairclough looked at Mrs Lavington and smiled.

"So, you were dispensing some discipline last evening, were you, Matron? And to all three children?"

"Yes, Mr Fairclough. It was necessary. As it was for young Machin."

"Well, I had better not detain you further. I am sure you have work to do."

He nodded, still twisting the pencil in his hand.

"And do let me know how you get on with Mr Crawley."

"I will, Sir, and thank you."

Mrs Lavington made her way back to the infirmary. She checked that Machin had thanked Mrs Simmonds as she had instructed, and then went into her office and sat at her desk. She looked at the clock. She would catch Edward Crawley just before lunch.

. . . . . . . . . .

She met him coming out of his classroom.

"Edward, would it be convenient to speak for a moment. I had occasion to punish Samuel yesterday evening for lack of effort. And I am not at all happy with the progress he's making. I have to say that, as far as I am concerned, his whole attitude to work leaves much to be desired."

"Of course, Cordelia. Come into the classroom."

Edward Crawley was an affable, well-meaning man who had entered the teaching profession with a strong sense of vocation and that in turn had led him to the orphanage. He subscribed to the view that to understand all was to forgive all, and consequently leant over backwards to engage with the boys. Encouragement rather than punishment was his watchword.

He waved to a chair and himself perched on the side of a desk. Mrs Lavington declined the offer to be seated and remained standing.

"So, you are unhappy with Samuel's progress?"

"Yes, Edward, I am. Samuel is a boy who needs to be driven. Kindness and consideration don't work with him. He's a boy who should be set a fixed amount of work and punished when he falls short."

She paused.

"And he has also reached an age when he's showing a lot of unhealthy interest in his own body. And that doesn't help with his concentration."

"So, Cordelia, what are you expecting of me?"

"To rely far less on encouragement and far more on punishment. You are too soft on the boy, Edward. He winds you round his little finger. You need to be tougher and less sympathetic."

"I have to disagree with you, Cordelia. Samuel is a good boy who genuinely finds his work difficult. He needs to be helped and have his confidence built up. And that is what I'm trying to do."

Mrs Lavington pursed his lips.

"And as far as I can see without a great deal of success, Edward. When a method doesn't work, it probably needs to be changed. In fact, it certainly needs to be changed. Samuel is fundamentally a lazy boy. Encouragement is simply not enough. Oh, he will listen to you and be grateful for your interest, and promise to try harder. But what he is most grateful for is not having demands made on him.”

She gave a sigh of exasperation.

"Because, if nothing is demanded of him, he never can fall short, Edward. He will contentedly rest where he is and make absolutely no progress."

"I am sorry Cordelia but I don't think you understand the boy at all. He . . . "

"How dare you tell me that I don't understand my own son, Edward. I have cared for him and nurtured him over eleven difficult years. I am in a far better position, a far better position than you, to understand him. The boy needs firmness and discipline. The imposition of a structure that will not buckle when he tests it by his laziness and disobedience. And above all he needs to know that the rod will not be withheld. That excuses will not be accepted. And that a sound whipping will be the natural and inevitable consequence of failure."

She paused, flushed and angry at his incompetence and lack of commitment to her son's well-being.

Edward Crawley, too, was flushed at her vehemence. And anxious that she might lodge a complaint with the Principal. He made a little grimace.

"Well, Cordelia, I accept how you feel and you have every right to express your concern. But I am sure it would not be helpful to single out Samuel and impose on him a more rigorous routine than the other boys. But . . . "

He frowned.

" . . . but how about my providing you with a short daily report on his achievement and his effort? That would be without any comment from me. It would be as objective as I could make it. If I have set twenty sums and he has attempted seven and got only three right that is what I would report. And if he had made little effort or allowed himself to be distracted, I would report that, too. Irrespective of whether I considered there to be extenuating circumstances. It would then be for you to question him and deal with him as you considered best."

Mrs Lavington smiled.

"That seems an excellent idea, Edward. And as you suggest, let us start with daily reports. Hopefully, in a short while, we might be able to move to weekly reports."

She nodded.

"And thank you, Edward, for your understanding and co-operation. Give the report to Samuel at the end of each day and remind him that I am expecting it."

She smiled.

"I would not want it lost on the way home."